


Under a Green Sea

by brinnanza



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Angst, First Kiss, M/M, Near Death Experiences
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-03
Updated: 2015-02-03
Packaged: 2018-03-10 06:59:32
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,999
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3281102
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brinnanza/pseuds/brinnanza
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>But when Sheppard looks down at McKay now, he sees M2X-1208, blood mixing with the pristine white snow, ashy grey skin. He hears wet, gasping breaths, feels the slackening of fingers on his sleeve, and suddenly it’s Sheppard who can’t breathe, Sheppard who feels the sharp, stabbing pain in his chest.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Under a Green Sea

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Romancing McShep Romance Fest 2015. The prompt I was going for was number 81 [here](http://romancingmcshep.livejournal.com/15543.html), but I ended up only getting the first half. Unfortunately, the bet part didn't really fit the tone, but I'll put it in something else.

McKay is _fine_ , Sheppard tells himself, staring down at the pale, unconscious form of his best friend, laid out on a hospital gurney. Keller is excellent at her job, and she stopped all the bleeding and patched up all the bullet holes. He’s still unconscious, sure, but he’s out of the woods, and after another go under one of the Ancient medical gizmos, he’ll be released from the infirmary and he’ll go back to work. It’ll all be over, like nothing even happened.

But when Sheppard looks down at McKay now, he sees M2X-1208, blood mixing with the pristine white snow, ashy grey skin. He hears wet, gasping breaths, feels the slackening of fingers on his sleeve, and suddenly it’s Sheppard who can’t breathe, Sheppard who feels the sharp, stabbing pain in his chest.

The thing is, Sheppard has seen McKay get hurt before, badly even. He’s seen guys killed right in front of him, guys he really liked even. God knows he’s had plenty of nightmares about Holland and Ford, but there was nothing like this nauseated, hollow panic.

Teyla and Ronon had gone to bed hours ago, secure in the knowledge that McKay would be in good hands. Teyla had tried to get him to leave too, get some sleep or at least a shower, but Sheppard had brushed her off. She’d relented when she saw the slight shake of his hands, which he’d immediately hid in his pockets. She’d touched her forehead to his, given him a tight, concerned smile, and left him to wait.

Some of the nurses -- new ones; Sheppard didn’t even know their names -- had tried to kick him out a little bit later. Marie had hurried over and shuffled them off. She gave him a look, stern but sympathetic and pulled him over to the sink, where she pushed his blood-stained hands under the tap and made him wash them.

Everyone had left him alone after that. He’d paced for a while, too keyed up to settle down properly, hands still shaking. It was fine, he told himself. It was adrenaline and nearly freezing and yes, concern, but McKay was his friend, so of course he would be worried. Surgery vigils were par for the course at this point; it would be the same for any of his team. (He’d ignored the voice in the back of his head that called him a liar.)

He’d thought it would go away once he saw McKay after, sleeping off the anesthetic and covered in bandages, but whole and alive. But all Sheppard can see is bright red on crisp white and all he can hear is Keller giving orders, delivered in her firm doctor voice. (She tells him step back, she’ll take care of Rodney, it’ll be okay, but she was _wrong before_ and how can Sheppard trust her again?)

He stares down at McKay and his hands shake and he thinks _I almost_ and _I can’t_. He tastes blood in the air, the acrid tang of fear, and suddenly he can’t stand to be here any longer. He can’t shake the image of Rodney bleeding out in the middle of nowhere, killed on fucking _accident_ because some kid doesn’t have proper firearms training.

Sheppard bolts, runs the long way back to his quarters, skipping the transporters. By the time he reaches his room, blood is pounding in his ears and his legs are burning. He’s too tired to breathe, much less freak out, so the pounding of his heart and the tight band around his lungs have to be from exertion, not from a panic attack that won’t end. 

He collapses down onto the bed and falls asleep with his clothes on.

 

The door chimes just after dawn the next morning, and Sheppard hurts all over. He considers telling Ronon to fuck off, that he doesn’t want to run today, just stay in bed and sleep until his brain resets, but after a couple of chimes and a couple of pounding knocks, the door slides open anyway.

“McKay showed me how to override the locks,” Ronon says to Sheppard’s unasked question, then stares at him until he gets up. Sheppard aims a mental glare at Atlantis and then a physical one at Ronon, but he changes into sweats and then sits down on the edge of the bed to pull on his shoes.

When he stands up again, Ronon studies him for a moment. Then he says, unapologetically, “You look like shit.” Shepard scowls, but he doesn’t say anything.

They run in silence. Sheppard’s body is still strung out from the aftermath of so much sustained adrenaline and it hurts, but he needs this, needs to push himself until he can’t think. Ronon doesn’t comment when Sheppard adds another mile to their typical route, just pads along beside him until Sheppard slows to a jog and drags a forearm across his brow.

They walk back to a transporter, and Sheppard half expects Ronon to say something, ask how he is or how he’s holding up. Instead, they part ways at the personnel quarters with an unspoken agreement to meet again in the mess for breakfast, the same as any other morning.

He gets into a shower almost hot enough to scald and lets the water work out some of the aches in his muscles. He tries not to think about McKay. It’s a little easier now, with some distance now that he’s out of the long shadows of the infirmary in the middle of the night, but every so often, he gets a flash of an image, steam curling up from the splatters on the snow, the rattle of the gurney wheels in the Puddle Jumper, and his hands shake so badly he almost drops the shampoo.

He can’t work like this. He needs to pull himself together because if anyone sees him like this, nervous and dysfunctional, they’ll send him to the expedition’s shrink, and while he thinks he could probably fool her into thinking he’s fine, there’s always the chance that she’ll get under his skin, see behind the cool, laconic facade, and then--

But that’s not going to happen, because Sheppard’s going to get it together, get dressed and meet his friends for breakfast and everything will be okay. 

Belatedly, he realizes his grip on the shampoo bottle is so tight that his knuckles are white and most of the shampoo has washed down the drain. He gets the hell out of the shower.

 

Teyla and Torren join them for breakfast. Torren sits in his mother’s lap and only gets about half of his breakfast into his mouth. He’s all smiles this morning, in direct contrast, Teyla tells them, to the way he woke in the middle of the night, terrified and screaming.

“Night terrors,” Sheppard says, vaguely recalling the term from somewhere. He knows the feeling.

“I can only hope they will subside soon,” says Teyla as she brushes crumbs off of Torren’s face. Torren giggles and grabs at her fingers, and then they’re chatting about normal, banal things: the city, Teyla’s desire for more children, Ronon’s relationship with Amelia. Sunlight streams in through the big windows and the balcony doors are open, and the whole thing seems to clear away some of the darkness Sheppard’s been drowning in. 

They’re wrapping up, clearing away the remains of breakfast, when Teyla says, “I thought I might stop by the infirmary and see if Rodney is awake. Would either of you like to join me?”

Sheppard shoves his hands in his pockets. He should say yeah, sure, be there for his friends, but he says, “Can’t -- new group of marines needs to be rotated into the duty roster.”

He leaves before Ronon can say “Don’t you usually make Lorne do that?” or Teyla can give him that quietly pitying look that means she doesn’t believe him. He realizes he’s being stupid, and he doesn’t need his team to confirm it.

 

To his credit, he actually does work on the duty roster, and then he gets to work on a stack of requisition forms. When lunchtime rolls around, he grabs a sandwich from the mess and takes it back to his office. Paperwork is boring and seemingly unending, but it’s tedious enough that very little of his attention is available to wander. He ends up spending the rest of the day in his office, working on things Lorne will be thrilled to hear he no longer has to do himself.

He manages to fool himself into thinking he’s gotten over whatever lingering issues he’d been having. He’s getting up to leave, maybe grab some dinner and see how McKay is doing when there’s a knock, the whoosh of the door sliding open, and McKay is blustering in, already mid-rant before Sheppard has even really registered his presence.

“You would think after six years Miko would buck up already, but no, that woman is Doctor Water Works every time someone gets a _paper cut_ and I have way too many things to do to--” He stops suddenly when he sees Sheppard staring at him.

Because the thing is, McKay looks terrible still. There are dark rings under his eyes and he’s still too pale, but he’s undeniably alive, loud and pushy like always.

“Should you be up?” Sheppard blurts before he can do something ridiculous, like leap over his desk and confirm with his hands that Rodney is really okay.

McKay gives him a look and shrugs. “Jennifer said to take it easy, but I’m fine and very busy, so…” He trails off, pauses, then asks, “Are you okay?”

Sheppard clears his throat. “Uh, fine. You wanna get dinner?”

“Yeah,” says McKay, and then he launches into another rant about his staff. Sheppard doesn’t get any more flashes of M2X-1208 and McKay’s shoulder is warm when they bump against each other. 

 

They’re on a routine first-contact mission to M9X-0426, trudging through the muddy aftermath of the continent’s rainy season when McKay goes down suddenly, mid-complaint. One second, he’s loudly advocating for the use of Puddle Jumpers on every off-world mission and the next he’s on the ground.

“Jesus, Rodney,” Sheppard chokes out, his heart dropping into his stomach. He practically mows down Teyla in his effort to get to McKay, then drops to a crouch, simultaneously scanning for threats and running his hands over McKay’s chest and sides, checking for injuries.

McKay yanks a hand from the mud with a squelching sound and bats Sheppard’s hands away. “What are you--knock it off, Colonel, I’m fine!” Sheppard freezes, then draws his hands away. McKay struggles up into a sitting position, then colors slightly and ducks his head. “I just tripped.”

“Oh,” says Sheppard, and okay, yeah, maybe things aren’t quite fine or normal yet. He stands up and offers a hand to McKay.

“Glad to see someone is concerned for my well-being anyway,” McKay says, aiming a brief glare at Ronon and Teyla (Teyla quirks an eyebrow at him, and Ronon rolls his eyes) before taking Sheppard’s hand and hauling himself to his feet. When he releases Sheppard’s hand, it’s covered in the thick mud. Sheppard makes a face and wipes the hand off on his pants.

“See, if we’d brought a jumper, this wouldn’t have happened,” McKay says, poking through the pockets of his TAC vest until he finds some tissues, which he uses to wipe off the worst of the mud. “And then I wouldn’t have to spend the rest of this mission with mud in places you don’t even want to know about.”

“Relax, McKay,” says Ronon, taking point and starting off again. “It’s just mud. Walking’s good for you.”

“Easy for you to say,” grumbles McKay. 

“Besides.” Ronon aims a toothy grin over his shoulder. “You clearly need the practice.”

“Oh that’s just--” McKay swats Ronon on the arm and they continue ahead, falling into familiar bickering.

Sheppard stares after them for a moment, and then Teyla’s voice says in his ear, “Perhaps I should take our six?” Her face is carefully devoid of judgment.

“Oh, uh, sure,” Sheppard tells her. He ignores the look she gives him and hurries to catch up to Ronon and McKay, where he can keep an eye on any potential oncoming threats and attempt to get his heart rate under control.

 

When they get back to Atlantis, McKay corners Shepard in the locker room as soon as Ronon and Teyla leave.

“What was that about, Colonel?” he asks, hands on his hips and still liberally coated in mud.

Sheppard opts to play dumb. It’s worked out well for him in the past. “What was what about?”

McKay rolls his eyes as if his intelligence has been insulted (which, in fairness, it probably has been; McKay’s intelligence is very easily insulted). “Back on the planet. When I tripped, you reacted like I’d been shot or something.”

“Just looking out for my team,” Sheppard says easily, in no way prepared to actually have this conversation.

McKay narrows his eyes skeptically. “Really, that’s what you want to go with?”

Sheppard puts his hands up, palms out. “Hey, it was just friendly concern.”

“‘Friendly concern’?” McKay repeats, disbelief heavy in his voice. “So you would have reacted the exact same way if Teyla or Ronon had fallen?”

“Sure,” agrees Sheppard, even though he’s pretty sure they both know that’s a lie. Sheppard’s willing to do (and has done) an awful lot for his team, up to and including time travel and boarding heavily armed Wraith Cruisers, but he talked a man into suicide for McKay once, and he’s not so dense as to think that doesn’t mean anything or that McKay doesn’t mean a hell of a lot more to him.

“Come on, Sheppard,” McKay says derisively, taking a step toward him.

The locker room isn’t exactly private, with off-world teams coming and going, and they’re both still pretty grimy from their own mission, and there’s a debriefing they’re supposed to get to, so it’s a spectacularly bad time for McKay to catch a clue.

“Rodney,” Sheppard begins, though he’s not sure exactly what to say. _It’s nothing_ or _Drop it_ maybe.

But then McKay’s face softens, and he wrings his hands. “Look, he says, looking down. “I realize that the mission before this must have been… difficult. I mean, _I’m_ the one that got shot, but still.” He pauses. “I understand you might be… concerned about my safety, but I can assure you, I’m perfectly fine now, and I’m perfectly capable of handling myself in the field. And okay, a repeat of the situation is not impossible -- likely, really, considering the type of people we usually run into, but…” He trails off, looking unsure.

McKay’s a genius, but he’s only half right about what’s going on here, Sheppard thinks. His nerves are still on edge because of M2X-1208, because they came so close to the edge of something Sheppard refuses to even consider, but it’s more than that, more than just one single near-death experience making him overly cautious.

He had a lot of time to think while McKay was bleeding to death -- there wasn’t a lot he _could_ do besides try to keep pressure on the wounds and think. Hours of muttering “It’s gonna be okay; you gotta stay awake, Rodney” while his mind was screaming _Not like this_ and _Not now_ and _Not ever_.

Because what was Sheppard supposed to do if this was it, go back to Atlantis, grieve and then move on and pick a fucking replacement for his team? Atlantis is his home, the first place he’s even really felt that way, but Atlantis is more than a flying city that reads his mind. Atlantis is home and team and family, and it’s Rodney fucking McKay, god damn it.

“Sheppard?” McKay prompts uneasily a sort of nervous pity on his face.

“It’s not--” Sheppard starts, then breaks off. Because how the hell is he supposed to put it into words, how Sheppard will fight and kill and die if necessary for his friends, but the thought of losing McKay makes a snake of cold panic curl up in his gut, makes his hands shake, makes the usually implacable Colonel John Sheppard lose his damn mind?

“I can’t--” he tries again, but it’s no good.

Maybe he’s doing this wrong. Words have never really been his thing. He clenches his fists, takes a breath, then crosses to McKay and leans down, pressing his mouth to McKay’s.

McKay, ever the quick thinker, gets with the program almost immediately. He opens his mouth and kisses back, hot and deep and so, so good. He fists his hands in Sheppard’s jacket, pulling them closer together.

It’s not all fixed, and Sheppard still feels the distant echo of helpless panic, hears the kkh-shhh of the ventilator, but it’s far away, like the memory of an ache. Rodney is warm and pressed against him, visceral and real and alive. It settles something inside of him, that this is happening, that McKay is here, that he gets it, maybe.

He pulls his mouth away and takes what feels like his first real breath in days. He leans his forehead against McKay’s and breathes.

“Hey,” says McKay quietly, bringing his hands up to touch Sheppard’s face. “Are you…?”

“Don’t,” says Sheppard, his voice low and rough. McKay pulls his hands back as if stung, his mouth an unhappy slant. Sheppard catches them and clears his throat. “No, not that. I mean don’t…” He frowns.

“Die?” suggests McKay, and Sheppard shrugs. “I can’t make any promises,” he says honestly, “what with everything that wants to kill me.” He gives Sheppard a crooked smile. “You know me -- strong sense of self-preservation. Especially now that I’ve got--” He gestures between them, then looks up sharply, eyes wide. “I mean, I do have--?”

“Yes, Rodney,” Sheppard reassures him. “You’ve got. Whatever you want.”

“Good,” says McKay, and he leans in for another kiss.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Under a Green Sea [Podfic]](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3565748) by [librarychick_94](https://archiveofourown.org/users/librarychick_94/pseuds/librarychick_94)




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